


a chaotic cataloging

by LuckyDiceKirby



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-14 23:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 10,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10546362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyDiceKirby/pseuds/LuckyDiceKirby
Summary: This is a collection of all my small fics that are either permanently unfinished or just too short to post on their own. Or: time for me to clean out my g docs!most recent chapters:16 - Satellite being gay for Primary17 - Alyosha and Ephrim meeting as children





	1. Samot/Samothes, nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samot has a nightmare.

Samothes wakes in the night to find Samot gone. His spot in the bed is still warm, and it only takes a few minutes of groggy searching to find him in the kitchen, pouring water into a kettle, his hair pulled back in a messy bun.

He doesn't turn around when Samothes walks in. "Go back to bed, dear. You'll be cross in the morning."

Samothes ignores him. He comes to Samot's side, resting his head on his shoulder and a hand against his stomach. Samot feels very cold in his arms. "You should let me do that," he says into Samot's hair. "You always oversteep the tea."

Samot puts the kettle on the stove, and lights it with a match. His hands are only just shaking. He turns around in Samothes' arms and levels him with a look. "That's not true."

"A matter of opinion," Samothes says. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Samot closes his eyes. He presses a hand to Samothes' heart. "Sometimes, I think this isn't real. You, or me. This house. Maelgwyn."

"You're here. I'm here. Maelgwyn's sleeping, though not for much longer, if we don't keep quiet," Samothes says, tugging the tie out of Samot's hair and carding his fingers through it. 

Samot doesn't smile, but his frown lessens. "I know," he says. "I know. But sometimes, when I dream..."

Samothes cups the back of Samot's head. "I could step into your dreams, if you'd let me. I could--"

The kettle whistles sharply. Samot steps back, and goes to find mugs and tea. "You can't fix everything, Ingenuity Alive. And I don't want you to see."

Samothes crosses his arms. "Of all people, you should know I'm not weak."

"Idiot," Samot says, not unkindly, measuring out the tea. "It's not that. I don't want you to see me." He looks up. "Samol knew me then, and Severia. They remember. I'm glad that you weren't. That you don't know. I want to keep it that way."

Samothes can't help but laugh. "You, promoting ignorance?"

"Odd, I know." Samothes touches his face, then, his thumb sweeping against the curve of his cheekbone.

"Was it really so bad?"

"The longer I stay with you, the more I forget. Like you're burning the shadows out of me."

"That's good, then."

"Maybe. But there are dangers in forgetting." Samot leans into Samothes' hand, his smile just as dazzling as it's always been. "It's nice, though." He tilts up his chin when Samothes leans down to kiss him.

They stand there in the kitchen for a long time. The tea, when they step apart, is oversteeped. Samot drinks it anyway.


	2. Jace/Addax, they get hitched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Addax writes sappy poetry for Jace. C/w endgame spoilers. Written for imperialhare on twitter!

Addax thinks wistfully, sometimes, about sheets of paper. A few places still use hard copies--mostly universities, forever behind in technological developments. There's plenty of paper on Kesh, but the Rapid Evening steadfastly continues to use digital communications. In most circumstances, Addax prefers that. Right now, though, he really would like to be able to crumple up the paper that he's writing on and throw it at the wall.

It's been years since Addax started keeping a journal--he's found that it's a good way to get his thoughts in order. He doesn't know why this should be so difficult, writing down how he feels about Jace. It isn't as if he hasn't done it before. He'd let Jace read his old journal entries, once, when Jace had asked about the ten years that he'd missed. Addax had refused to be in the same room while Jace read them--he wasn't sure he could bear to see Jace's expression, when he realized how often that Addax mentioned him.

Addax hadn't quite expected for Jace Rethal, in the flesh, to be around to read all the things that Addax had written about him.

But now, knowing that Jace is going to read this--that he's going to read it to Jace--that other people are going to be there when he reads it to Jace--

"I'm fond of 'starlit eyes' myself," Jace says, peering over Addax's shoulder to look at his tablet. "And 'glowing smile'."

Years of combat experience, and years of experience being in a relationship with Jace Rethal, are enough to keep Addax from startling. He puts down his tablet and sighs instead. "Look, I'd like to see what you come up with."

"Aw, I was being sincere," Jace says, swinging himself around to sit in Addax's lap. "I love you too, you know." He puts his arms around Addax's neck and leans in, pressing his nose to Addax's and looking him in the eyes. "Hmm. ''Starry-eyed', maybe? Is that too similar?"

Addax closes his eyes and tips his head back to the ceiling. Jace laughs, and presses a kiss under his jaw. "Hey, I don't have to come up with anything. I'm using the vows Jamil wrote for me. She offered to write yours too, you know."

"I want to write it," Addax says. "Diasporan vows are usually--a tribute. You deserve that."

"I've got a whole chapter in the history books already, you know."

"That's not the same. That's not--no one knows about everything else. They only see the hero of the Golden War."

Jace smiles at him, raising an eyebrow. "You're saying I'm not your hero, Addax?"

Addax rests his hand against the side of Jace's face, his thumb brushing his cheekbone. "You are." He means to say more, but Jace leans in to kiss him, first on the mouth and then on his forehead, lips soft and warm.

"And anyway," Addax continues, "you're always complaining how no one reads your dissertation. I was going to put in a whole verse about how clever you are."

"What, nothing about how good I look in glasses?"

Addax, in response, slides them off his nose. "That's a given," he says.

Jace leans in to kiss him again.

A moment later, Jamil wraps her hand on the doorway. "Sorry, lovebirds, but the wedding's not for another month, and we do sometimes do work here."

Jace, despite all his years of combat experience, still startles easily. He jerks his head up, and overbalances the chair, sending both him and Addax to the floor.

Jamil sighs. "Meet me in the conference in room in ten, okay?"

Laughing into Jace's collarbone, Addax waves her off. Jace pokes him in the side. "Rude," he says.

"Don't worry. I'll write this down."

"Ugh," Jace says, but when he gets to his feet, he offers Addax a hand to pull him up.


	3. samot/samothes stabbing au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twitter discussed the possibility of an AU where Samot killed Samothes. So, this is that.

The forge is very quiet when Samot arrives. Unnaturally so. The normal sounds--the crackling of the fire, the beating of a hammer, the hissing of a blade in water--these are all muted. Samot can hear only the beat of his traitorous heart.

Samothes' back is turned to him, head bowed. In his hands he holds a sword, golden and gleaming.

For a terrifying moment, Samot thinks he will be unable to speak. Words, which are so precious to him, seem to have fled. But at last he opens his mouth. "The party is lovely. You've really outdone yourself this year." His voice sounds awful. Smooth and unaffected. How nice it would be, to scream himself hoarse instead.

Samothes does not turn around. "My dear," he says, and the warmth in his voice threatens to buckle Samot's knees. "Do you remember what we used to do for High Sun Day?"

Samot forgets nothing, now that materiality and history are both within his grasp. High Sun Day has always been a day of pomp and circumstance, of wild celebration, of Samothes showing off his newest and most ingenious creations. But it used to end, too, with them alone in the last dying light of the day, tempering that work with a little wine, and a little love.

They watched the sunset together, late in the night.

"I remember." There are no windows in this forge, deep within Samothes' volcano. Samot, suddenly and desperately, wishes to see the sun. "I'm sorry that we'll have to miss it, this year."

Samothes turns to him then, finally. Samot doesn't know what he's expecting to see in his face--anger, or fear, or resignation. But Samothes looks as he has always looked: judicious, and all-knowing, and as if he loves Samot to distraction.

He offers Samot the sword, hilt-first. Samot thinks, for a second as long as those only the gods can make, about walking away from his own idea, his own folly. Of letting Samol die, risking all the world crumbling to dust. Let the Heat and the Dark win, if it wants Nothing back so much.

Samot could end the war here, if he wanted. He could go back to their shared home. He could let Samothes live.

It wouldn't last. They can never have that peace back; things can never be as they once were. And Samot is many things, but he is not selfish enough to let the world die at his feet, just so Samothes may live.

He has to try. He could never live with himself, if he didn't at least try.

The blade is warm to the touch when Samot grasps it.

"I miss you," he says, helplessly, looking at his own reflection in the sword, so that he doesn't have to see Samothes' expression.

Samothes cups Samot's cheek and tips his chin up to meet his eyes.

"It's the only way," Samot says. His voice, finally, is trembling.

"For your sake," Samothes says, "I hope so." He kisses Samot, eyes closed, hand still on his cheek, and he makes no sound when the sword pierces his chest. He tastes of ashes and blood.

Alone, that night, Samot watches the sun slip below the horizon. In the morning, it will rise again on a city reborn.


	4. Fantasmo + Alyosha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fantasmo writes a letter. MAJOR Hieron spoilers thru episode 12 of Winter in Hieron.

Exarch Alyosha--

I acknowledge that I am writing to you without a proper introduction. I am told such things are rude, at least by Sunder Havelton's standards. You know her, I believe? Perhaps that can serve as a common point of introduction. She and I taught at the University together for a time. I understand that you studied there.

Unfortunately, I cannot give you a concrete reason for why you are receiving this letter. I do not know it myself. A colleague mentioned you in passing, as the new Exarch who would arrive in Velas to head the Church of Samothes. I am a man of learning. There is little enough reason for me to have any business with a man of the Church. And yet your name stuck in my mind, refusing to be dislodged, no matter how many times I tried to direct my focus away in study.

All things are knowable in this world. This is the defining belief I must have, as a mage and as a man of the University. There must be a reason that while I have never met you, I can picture your image clearly in my mind, can hear words spoken in your voice.

You asked me once--

Or perhaps--probably--you did not.

One of my fellows might say this is a result of divine intervention, but I know well my own mind. That is not the case.

I suppose I write this letter to ask only--have we met? I hate to think that I am growing forgetful in my old age, but it is certainly possible. No matter what: there is an explanation for this predicament, and I intend to have it.

I will be leaving soon for a journey. I do not know when I will return. I suppose I will have to decide whether or not to post this letter.

Perhaps I shouldn't. There is enough foolishness in this world. But there is, too, enough ignorance. Adding to one while taking away from another may be worth it.

And I suppose--well. Curiosity is a powerful thing.

If it does not offend, I would like to visit when I return. Perhaps then we can both have answers.

The Great Fantasmo


	5. Jace/Addax, post-c/w

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle against Rigour, Jace and Addax watch the stars. (c/w finale spoilers)

The night after the Golden Branch Star System comes together to defeat Rigour, Jace Rethal and Addax Dawn sit on a roof together and watch the stars.

Jace's legs dangle over the side of the building, his feet swinging. "Kesh is weird," he says, not for the first time. He's looking down at the land surrounding Addax's home in the Principality of Kesh, at the soft glow of natural lights surrounding the estate.

It's been five years since Addax recruited Jace to the Rapid Evening. Addax isn't sure that he'll ever get used to it.

"It's different," says Addax. It is: so unlike the worlds of the Diaspora, and just as unlike the strange halls of Peace, where Addax had once spent so much time. "I kind of like it. It's quiet."

"Peaceful, huh?" Jace nudges his shoulder as he says it, a shit-eating grin on his face.

This is a well-worn conversation, one they can have almost without thinking. It's easier to do this, to repeat old jokes, than to confront the enormity of this night, of everything that it could mean.

Addax has only felt like this once before. Afterwards, he hadn't seen Jace for ten years.

There's still a streak of grease from Jace's mech across his cheek. His hair is a little singed from a close call with Rigour, one that had Addax yelling at him over their private comm channel.

Fifteen years on, and underneath all the bluster and fear and loss, Jace Rethal still wants to be a hero.

"I don't know if I ever told you," Addax says, "how glad I was to see you that day, on Counterweight.”

Jace waggles his eyebrows at him, and leans back on his hands. "I dunno. I think you got the point across."

Addax smiles, and shakes his head. "Yeah," he says, and he leans over to kiss Jace on the cheek, just above that streak of oil. "I missed you, after--after everything."

"I missed you too," Jace says. He pulls one of his legs up, wrapping his arm around it. "Even if I didn't know it. You were really something, back then." He turns to face Addax. "I mean, uh--you still are."

He's gotten used to being on the receiving end of Jace's fumbling compliments, so Addax doesn't laugh. "You should have seen yourself today," he says instead. "It's no wonder Rigour lost."

"Sure," says Jace, but he's not smiling anymore. "He--he never stood a chance."

Jace has never been a good liar. And they both know that Rigour wasn't defeated by dramatic feats of heroism, by flashes of ingenuity or startling displays of bravery: Rigour was defeated by attrition, by casualties, by the stubbornness of humanity writ large.

For a little while, neither of them say anything. Jace looks up at the stars, and Addax watches him.

"Hey, Addax?" Jace says, after a moment.

“Yes?”

He puts his head on Addax's shoulder. When he speaks, his voice is quiet. "Think we really beat him?"

Addax looks out at the sky, at the stars. It's been a long time since he was a Candidate, since he thought he understood what peace meant. It's been a long time since he thought that conflicts like this could have easy solutions.

It's been a long time.

Addax takes Jace's hand. "We did," he says. "I know we did."

The worry dissolves from Jace's face in an instant. He closes his eyes, settles closer against Addax. "Okay," Jace says. "I believe you."


	6. Angelo + Adelaide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he was young, Angelo's mother told him and Adelaide the story of the panther birds, and of how the first blackbirds came to be.

When he was young, Angelo's mother told him and Adelaide the story of the panther birds, and of how the first blackbirds came to be.

She said that each piece of a panther bird was part of a greater whole, that together they made something huge and strong, whether they were separated at the time or not.

Like our city, she told her children, the heirs to the throne of Nacre. 

Blackbirds, she said, were what happened when any one part of a panther strayed too far from the rest, so that it could no longer see where it came from. And once it had strayed that far, she said, it could never go back, could never be part of that whole again.

Adelaide watched her mother with wide eyes, and then turned them to her brother. "Blackbirds must be very lonely," she said.

Angelo said nothing. He thought the story was very beautiful.

He didn't think of it again for years, until the night he killed his father and took the name Calhoun.

He thought then about panthers and blackbirds, about the city he would never see again, about how his sister's face might look, when she discovered what he had done. From the railing of his ship, he watched the city of Nacre disappear, and wondered what exactly it was worth to be free.


	7. Quentin + Ibex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin is ten years old when his brother is chosen as the candidate of Righteousness.

Quentin likes Maryland, when he visits her and Attar on September. She never talks down to him, or anyone else: she merely assumes that you can keep up, for better or for worse. 

She helps Quentin with his homework sometimes, especially in those last few days, when Attar is forever outside making or taking calls. Maryland's better at it than Attar. She doesn't get distracted by intellectual tangents, the way Attar often does, although it really is too bad. Quentin hasn't learned about a new animal in weeks.

Quentin is ten years old when his brother is chosen as the candidate of Righteousness. He radiates pride, though he notices the furrow in Maryland's brow, the tightness in Attar's smile. He's very smart for his age. People are always telling him so.

Quentin asks, plaintively, just once: "But why does it have to be you?"

Attar looks away from him then, and out into the sky, out into the disparate stars that come together to make the Golden Branch. He says, "It has to be me. I can't trust anyone else to get it done."

There are a hundred other selfish questions that Quentin wants to ask. Why does there have to be a war; why are they teaming up with OriCon, anyway; why can't Quentin come with Attar, so they can both pilot Righteousness.

"Don't worry," says Attar--says Ibex--"I'll call you, little man. Every night."

And for a while he does.


	8. Hadrian + Alyosha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hadrian and Alyosha sit by the fire and talk. Spoilers through episode 18 of Winter in Hieron.

Alyosha is a model travel companion. He says little and eats less, barely making a dent in their stock of rations. He reminds Hadrian of a shadow in reverse, like the first pale rays of dawn. It's nice to have another man of the Church around, and one with more scruples that Ephrim. 

At night, when they make camp, he sits by the fire composing letters. There are no towns to post them at, since they left Wharfhurst, so there must be a slowly growing stack of them at the bottom of Alyosha's pack.

The one he's working on tonight goes into the fire. 

"That's what I do," Hadrian says. "When I can't decide what to tell Rosana. How to explain all this to her."

Alyosha prods the fire with a stick, prompting a shower of sparks. "So much of life, I find, defies explanation. The only thing we can do is try to fit words around the things we see. The translations will never be perfect."

Hadrian nods his understanding. That's part of what it means to follow the creed of Samothes: finding the words to spread his light wherever one walks. "And who do you write to?" he asks. "Did you bring family with you, when you escaped Velas?"

The ghost of a smile crosses Alyosha's face. It's gone in a moment, a flicker of flame quickly extinguished. "No," he says. "The Church is my family. The man who raised me is long dead. And I might have made my own family, once; but our lord saw a different path for me." He looks up from the fire to meet Hadrian's eyes. "I was writing a letter to Tutor Arrell. A foolish endeavor, even on the best of days."

Hadrian has been trying not to think of Arrell in his spare moments. He focuses only on his memories of Benjamin, and not on the fact that he is gone. "I never learned how you two met."

"It was a long time ago." Alyosha closes his eyes. "I studied at the university, once. He used to be an excellent teacher."

There's more. Hadrian has been with the church long enough to sense the weight of secrets on a tongue. But whatever secrets Alyosha holds stay trapped within his teeth. They turn to ashes in the fire as the pages of his letter burn. "He's the only one I ever write to. He never listens, but I can't seem to bring myself to stop."

"I know what that's like," Hadrian says, thinking of his conversations with Hella. "We just have to keep trying. The light of Samothes will come to all, in the end."

"You believe that?" Alyosha leans back on his hands and looks up at the dark sky above them, lit only by the light of a single moon. 

"I do."

"I don't know what I believe, anymore," Alyosha says. "I believed that I would talk him out of it, once."

"There's still time." 

Alyosha shakes his head. "We used to argue constantly; we've never seen the world the same way. Sometimes I thought that the Hieron he saw when he woke each morning was wholly different from mine. But now I think we have only ever seen the same thing. It is only a matter of our perspectives. I am beginning to see that those are irreconcilable."

"Alyosha," Hadrian says. "You can't give up hope."

"But see, you've hit on the problem perfectly: I do still have hope. Arrell has none. And I don't think that's something that anyone can give him. I used to think I could, when I was young. But I was only ever being selfish." Alyosha stands. "It's time to rest. There is, as ever, a long journey ahead of us." He kicks dirt onto the fire before he goes. Hadrian watches the last few wisps of smoke rise in his wake. He holds on to his hope.


	9. samot + arrell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samot offers Arrell a bargain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really major spoilers through episode 24 of Winter in Hieron. (seriously!!)

"My friend," Samot says. He bends down to place a cool hand against Arrell's cheek. Arrell would rise, but he is unsure that his legs can hold him. It is better to remain on the ground than to try to stand, and fail in the attempt. "I did not think to see you again so soon."

"I had a letter," Arrell says. He wipes his mouth. His hand comes away bloody. "From that pet of yours. Hadrian."

Samot straightens, brushing his hair back from his face. "He is no pet of mine anymore, I fear. I'm surprised to see you here."

"I drew your counterpart to Marielda, above the surface, and faced him there." Arrell coughs, then, a few specks of blood dotting the white floor beneath him. Samot kneels down before him and presses a hand to his chest, and the pain eases. All of it: from the burns that mark Arrell's arms to the deep wounds covering his chest. The relics of a foolish, doomed attempt to fight a god. 

Alyosha had believed in his god with a fervor that Arrell found both annoying and alluring. Arrell has only ever believed in the ingenuity of men. And it seems that both of these beliefs brought them to folly.

"Ah." Samot sits back. "An impressive degree of foresight."

"He always said that my rage burned cold. I suppose he was right."

Samot stands. "Something we have in common, I believe. I am sorry, Tutor. He seemed a kind man."

Arrell squeezes his eyes shut. His wounds continue to bleed, but he can hardly feel it. He hardly felt them when he received them, when he lay there for hours in the snow, his life draining away. 

What he felt was the same thing he has been feeling since he opened that letter in his study. Since grief's hands dug into his chest and pulled his ribs aside, clawing out his heart, leaving only a wide emptiness in their wake. It is an ache previously unknown to Arrell. He thought he understood grief, and he did: he understood grief for an entire world. He did not know the sorrow of specificity. Of a single man whose smile he would never see again, whose steps would never grace Hieron's soil, whose words would never again drive Arrell to distraction.

"Kind," he says, words rough, "does not even begin to do Alyosha justice."

"I do understand how you feel," Samot says. His eyes, when Arrell raises his head to meet them, are clouded. He offers Arrell a hand. At the command in his eyes, Arrell accepts it. Samot pulls him up and keeps pulling, drawing Arrell into an embrace. 

Arrell allows it, one of Samot's arms around his waist and the other against his head, keeping Arrell's head tucked into Samot's neck. 

He ignores the kiss Samot presses to his forehead, and Samot has the grace to do the same of the tears that Arrell sheds into his collar. No more of a nuisance, surely, than the blood that must be seeping onto Samot's shirt.

"You have to send me back," Arrell says. "There is so much work left to be done."

"Are you sure?" Samot asks. "You could remain."

"No." Arrell has faced divinity in battle. He is no coward. He will face Hieron's plight head on, alone. It is no more and no less than what he sought to do before he received Hadrian's letter.

There is no reason for it to be any different.

"Alright," Samot says gently. "I will revive you, Tutor, and I ask for only one thing in return. Do your work, as you see fit. But when your work is done? Promise me that you will rest, for a while."

Arrell jerks back. "What point is there in resting?" 

"You spoke, once, of giving people time to live joyously."

"Surely you understand," Arrell says, "that there is nothing joyous left for me in all of Hieron."

Samot turns. He peers out the window of his tower. Arrell is not sure that it was there before. "I find," he says, "that there is much joy to be found in old letters, and wine, and nearly forgotten memories. They have sustained me for hundreds of years. They will sustain you."

"I would not call that joy."

"No?" Samot looks over his shoulder. His smile does not reach his eyes. "Something else then, perhaps. My command of words is not always what it used to be. Make your choice."

"I will return," Arrell says. Samot walks to him, taking his cheek in his hand once more. He tilts Arrell's face, inspecting him.

"It seems that history, even when let loose from the machinations of the gods, only ever repeats itself," he says. It does not sound like he is speaking to Arrell at all. "Maybe you will be wiser than I was." He presses his lips to Arrell's forehead, and this time his touch burns.

Arrell jerks up. He is cold, surrounded by snow, and there is blood on his shirt, but no wounds lie beneath it. 

The wind howls. Beside him, a wolf noses at his sleeve. 

Arrell stands. There is work to be done.


	10. samsam reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samot and Samothes see each other again. [spoilers for WiH 28]

Samot is staring down at the maps spread across the table when someone else puts on the mask. "Lem," he says, hearing the despair coloring the edges of his voice and not knowing how to stop it, "I know we didn't get much time to speak before, but--"

"You know, I thought I'd remembered. I was wrong. You're so much more beautiful than the mind can hold."

Samot drops his glass. He looks up, wine spreading over the ground, and sees Samothes standing where he expected Lem to be. 

One day, during the first winter he spent with Samothes, Samot had walked home from the University in the snow. It had fallen in huge flakes that clung to Samot's hair and to his skin, making him shiver. The burst of warmth when he'd arrived at their home, walking into the room where the fire and Samothes waited, was one of the best things he'd ever felt. It had thawed him down to his bones. And then Samothes had wrapped him up in his arms, lips pressed against his forehead, and Samot had briefly forgotten what the cold felt like at all.

Seeing Samothes again is exactly and nothing like that all at once. Samot feels warmer than he ever has before, like he's standing in the embers of a fire, but he hasn't forgotten the cold. He still feels every second of the time he's been alone, weighing down his heart.

"I'm imagining things," he says. He leans down to pick up the glass, staring at his reflection in the wine. He isn't beautiful. His face is haggard and worn, like a man brought to his limits and then pushed past them. He looks hopeless. 

Samothes' reflection appears beside his. Samot looks up to find him bending down, offering Samot a hand. 

His skin is shockingly hot when Samot takes it. He stumbles forward, splashing wine onto his shoes, collapsing into Samothes' chest. His fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt. "How," he says, choking on the words, his throat tight, his eyes filling with tears. "You're dead. You've been dead. He killed you."

Samothes wraps an arm around his back and buries his fingers in Samot's hair. He was always doing that. He loved Samot's hair.

It appears that he still does. 

His breath is so warm against Samot's ear. "We've never let death stop us, have we?"

Samot laughs; or maybe he sobs. He's not sure that they would sound very different right now. "No."

"Thank you, by the way."

"For what?" Samot pulls back so that he can see Samothes' eyes. They hold a softness and a certainty that Samot has not seen or felt for years and years. He wipes his face on his hand.

"For Hadrian," Samothes say. He runs his thumb along the shell of Samot's ear. "Thank you for sending him to me."

"He reminded me of you," Samot tells him, helpless. "He gets that same stubborn look in his eyes."

Samothes' smile could light up an entire city. "Really?" He leans down. "And here I thought he reminded me of you."

When he kisses Samot, it feels like spring, stretching on forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear to god if lem didn't bring the mask to swordtown..........


	11. alyosha and arrell and their cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was written awhile ago for evvy's birthday! i'm trying to clean out my WIP fic document a bit so Here It Is.

Alyosha is used to having cats around; there was always a stray or two following them around in his childhood, in the wake of the Grand Tour. So he is delighted when a scrawny creature in the awkward stage between kitten and fully-grown cat makes its home on Arrell's doorstep.

Alyosha isn't precisely living with Arrell, but he also isn't precisely not. Officially, he's been allotted a room for use during his studies, but it's in a crowded dormitory. If he's going to live in cramped quarters with a surly roommate, he'd much rather do so with Arrell. Arrell hasn't said a word either way about the arrangement they've settled into, but whenever Alyosha needs more space for his slowly accumulating belongings, a new shelf in Arrell's rooms suddenly becomes clear, as if by magic.

All in all, the situation is very suitable. The cat does, however, present something of a problem.

"If you stopped feeding it," Arrell says testily one night, as Alyosha sits with him on the porch, "then perhaps it would go and darken someone else's doorstep."

Alyosha scratches the cat under the chin, and nudges her closer to the plate of fish he's set out for her. "But she likes our doorstep, Tutor," he says. "If you let her inside, then it wouldn't be a problem."

"We have discussed this. I have a number of delicate experiments--"

Alyosha picks the cat up and puts her in Arrell's lap. Arrell stops talking as he and the cat stare at each other. Stopping Arrell in midsentence is a feat Alyosha has yet to manage. He feels rather proud.

"See?" he says. "She's perfectly well behaved."

Arrell eyes her narrowly. The cat rubs her chin against the front of his robes. When Arrell reaches out tentatively to stroke her on the head, she digs her claws into the fabric and leaps up onto his shoulder and then over, into the ajar door of Arrell's apartments.

Alyosha laughs, delighted in the face of Arrell's outrage. "She's obviously quite intelligent," he says. "I think we'll call her Dandelion."

For all his bluster, even Arrell can't bring himself to kick Dandelion out after she curls up in a corner of his room, settled contentedly on a blanket and purring up a storm.

A few months--and a good deal of fish from the market--go a long way to bringing her weight up. Arrell is forever pulling cat hair from his robes in disgust. Alyosha begins to feel right at home.

"You will remember to feed her, won't you?" Alyosha asks, as he prepares to leave for a short trip to visit a nearby envoy from the church. Cats, unfortunately, do not make for good travelling companions.

"Yes, yes," Arrell says, in the middle of scribbling down notes for his latest project. "Though I really don't understand why you insist on keeping that insufferable creature." Alyosha pats her on the side, rolling his eyes. Dandelion purrs, swishing her tail back and forth, sending a puff of ginger fur into the air.

"You know, that's a sentiment I hear often," Alyosha says. "They're usually not talking about the cat, though." Arrell snorts, and does not stop moving his pen. Alyosha leans on the desk and presses a kiss to Arrell's temple as he writes. "I'll see you soon, Tutor."

Arrell waves him off. Dandelion hops up onto the desk beside him, and Arrell reaches out to pet her absently with his free hand. Alyosha, unobserved, does not bother to hide his smile.

"Keep him company for me, won't you, Dandelion?" She meows at him. Arrell does not seem to notice the conversation, or the inky black pawprints that Dandelion has begun to make on the papers that he's already finished with. Alyosha leaves him to discover it for himself later. It's important that Tutor has someone around to bother him, while Alyosha is gone.

-

Arrell is occasionally kept out late by his studies, though more often than not it is Alyosha who delays him in returning to his rooms. Tonight, after spending hours arguing himself hoarse with a particularly recalcitrant member of the faculty about an error on their syllabus, he finds Alyosha asleep in his bed. A candle burns low on the nightstand, two glasses and a bottle of wine beside it. Arrell does not feel guilty, exactly, but it is too bad--Alyosha is only recently returned from his journey, and Arrell has not been able to spend much time with him, for all that they share space most days.

When Alyosha began to stay with him, Arrell was sure that it would only be tenable on a temporary basis. He has, in the recent past, desired solitude in which to complete his work. But Alyosha has fit himself so seamlessly into Arrell's life that living with him does not feel like a disruption at all. It is at times somewhat discomfiting.

The cat is asleep on Alyosha's chest. It opens its eyes when Arrell walks in, blinking up at him.

"Yes," Arrell tells it, nonsensically. There is no reason to talk to a cat. He knows this. "I know. The wine will keep until tomorrow."

The cat yawns hugely, and curls up into a tighter ball. Arrell shakes himself, and goes about putting away his things. He lingers over the two glasses Alyosha left out before leaving them where they are. 

After a few moments, though Arrell is trying his best to be quiet, Alyosha wakes up, humming into his pillow. He sees the cat on top of him and smiles, soft and fond, and then he looks up to see Arrell. His expression does not change. "Welcome home, Tutor."

"Yes," Arrell says. He clears his throat. The cat sits up, stretching, hopping onto the nightstand to nose at the bottle of wine. Shaking his head, Arrell dresses for bed.

Much like a cat, Alyosha curls around him when Arrell lies down, nose pressed against Arrell's shoulder. "It's all right about tonight, but we are having lunch tomorrow," he murmurs, breath stirring the soft hair at the base of Arrell's neck. "I don't care how busy you are."

"That seems acceptable," Arrell says, and Alyosha chuckles, slinging an arm over his waist. The cat, bored by the wine, jumps back onto the bed and settles against Arrell's chest.

Welcome home indeed. Arrell scratches the cat on the top of the head and closes his eyes. His former solitude, while perhaps more convenient, was certainly never this warm.


	12. throndir + arrell + knife emoji

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Throndir confronts Arrell again. [spoilers thru the season finale of WiH]

Throndir cocks his head much the same way that a bird might. He has such a different bearing, these days, than what Arrell remembers from his days as Fantasmo. “You should be dead already.”

“You did kill me once, ranger,” Arrell allows. “As I once killed you. Could we not consider ourselves even?”

“No,” Throndir says, conviction in his eyes. He could be so useful, if only he was turned to the proper purpose. 

It’s unfortunate. He did trust Fantasmo so.

“But it’s _working_ ,” Arrell says, gesturing behind himself, towards the barrier that surrounds Velas now. “You can hate me however much you like, but the Heat and the Dark must take precedence--”

“We don’t need your help to stop it,” Throndir says. Snarls. There is something odd about his eyes. And Arrell begins to feel cold. He raises his hands, but his movements feel sluggish, and the spell does not materialize in time. Throndir’s arrow strikes him just below his sternum.

Arrell’s knees buckle, and he falls to the ground. He does not have much blood left to lose, these days. He fumbles at the shaft of the arrow, trying to snap it cleanly. He really ought not bother. Throndir, in moments, has a knife pressed cold against his chest. “I cut your throat already,” he says, “so I guess I’ll just have to try something different.”

“Please,” Arrell says. He has to convince him. This is his last chance, he _must_. But when he continues speaking, that isn’t what comes out of his mouth. ”Please, you have to find him. Alyosha. I haven’t heard from him in months, and I fear--”

The tip of the knife digs in. “What do you fear, Arrell?” 

Ice burrows its way into Arrell’s veins. “So much,” Arrell says, under his breath. Throndir, of course, will still hear it. “You saw him more recently than I did. I fear he may be dead. I fear he may be worse than dead. I fear that through my negligence I killed him.”

Arrell has felt less, since the first time Throndir killed him. It’s as though his body is even more separate from his mind than it has always been. But when Throndir presses the knife deep, it _hurts_. And when he speaks, it burns. “He seemed nice. He deserved better than you,” he says. “You’re right. He probably is dead. No thanks to you or your _plan_.” He pulls the knife out, and Arrell coughs, blood staining his lips, the snow. He could reply, but words, finally, seem to have left him. A kind of peace he has never known. 

_Alyosha_ , he thinks, the last word left to him, as Throndir stands and walks away.

Arrell’s hands slip against the icy ground, and his vision wavers. He sees white and red and then--

Green.

Death was not so warm, the last time. 

Arrell presses a hand to his chest, and though the wound is still there, he can no longer sense it. He feels--

He feels warm. He is comfortable in a way that he rarely was, in life. The air around him is every time he shared a meal with Alyosha, every time they held each other close, every moment they spent silently reading together, the same candle keeping them both company. Cruel, to be reminded that he will never truly experience these things again.

He hears a loud noise, metal striking metal. Arrell looks up. 

He must make some sort of sound, because the man standing before him--it looks like Alyosha but surely, surely it cannot be--raises his eyes from his work, brow drawn tight.

“Oh,” says Alyosha. His voice is absent. He does not lower his hammer. “Tutor, you’re bleeding.”

The first time Arrell tries to speak, nothing comes out. He tries again. “I--Pupil--Alyosha. I do not understand.”

Alyosha laughs, and turns back to his work. The sound curls around Arrell’s heart and squeezes. “I’ve never heard you say that,” he says. “The world really must be ending.” His face grows serious again. “I think--I think I’ve been given something. A duty.” The hammer strikes again. “A curse, maybe.” Again. “But I am glad that you are here.” Again.

Arrell bows his head. A vine touches his chest, another the ruin of his throat, a third his face, the place where the Heat and the Dark touched him.

Under that touch--or perhaps because of Alyosha’s presence alone--Arrell begins to feel whole again. “Yes,” he says. “So am I.”

Alyosha’s hammer strikes once more. Arrell's heart begins to beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man i don't know somehow i managed to hit every range of the self-indulgence spectrum  
> do not ask me ANYTHING about the metaphysics of this


	13. Fourteen/Activation, they get that drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fourteen gets Activation that drink they owe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fact that my first TM fic isn't primary/satellite is a betrayal of my values but these guys were so fraught.....

It's been a long day. Fourteen's had a lot of long days lately. But they could really use a Reversed Mango Slinger, and so they stop by The Steady on the way back to their apartment. No harm in making their day just a little longer.

Activation is there, sitting at the bar with a drink in his hand, condensation beading against his fingers. He looks up when Fourteen comes in, raises an eyebrow and lifts his drink.

His hair is down. It's gotten longer since the last time Fourteen saw him.

"Ah," he says, when Fourteen approaches. "How many weeks has it been? Fourteen, fifteen?"

Fourteen takes the stool next to him. "Something like that," they say. They wave down the bartender. She already has their drink ready; Fourteen has become something of a regular these days. "You're looking well."

Activation grins at him. Alcohol has softened the rough edges that his smiles often have, particularly around Fourteen. He's not a wistful drunk. They make a good pair that way, because Fourteen very much is. "And you look the same as ever. I wasn't sure who you'd be, tonight. It has been awhile."

"It's always me, Activation."

"I know. I know." He tips the rest of his drink back. "Your friend, Miss Sky, she told me I could find you here."

Fourteen looks over to Tender's usual corner of the bar. She waves at him cheerfully. Fourteen waves back, and they can't help but smile.

"She seems nice," Activation says, studiously neutral. Activation is a reporter at heart; he really can't help asking leading questions.

"She is," Fourteen agrees. "She's important, I think."

Activation nudges them in the shoulder. Face carefully blank. "So? You and her?"

"No, no, it's just--a feeling. I get those, sometimes."

"Intuition. Yeah, I got you."

"You're hear to call in a favor, then? I do owe you one. Or a few.” 

Activation traces the rim of his glass with a finger. "You do," he says. "That's not why I'm here, though. It's a personal call, let's say."

"Oh." Fourteen fumbles with their glass, suddenly unsure what to do with their hands. "Um. Okay. We could start with a drink?"

Activation gives them another one of those soft smiles. "Whiskey, neat."

Fourteen makes the order. "I've always preferred cocktails."

Activation laughs. "If you can't taste the alcohol, what's the point?" He pauses. "Do things taste different? You know. After you change."

"Sometimes," Fourteen says. "But, uh, I guess some things are innate. I can't ever stand tequila. And I've never had a body that doesn't like mangos." They take another sip of their drink, and Activation smiles into his own, his loose hair falling into his face. Fourteen reaches out and tucks it behind his ear. His skin is warm, and Fourteen's hand lingers.

"So, gunslinger," Activation says, leaning into their hand, "what's your intuition telling you now?"

"Ah--I'm not, I mean, the gunslinger thing is really just--" They touch their empty holster.

Activation puts a hand over their mouth. "I know, Fourteen." He moves his hand to their jaw and leans in. "Mm," he says, against Fourteen's mouth. "You're taller this time. Do I taste different?"

He tastes mostly of whiskey. Even Fourteen--who Activation has admonished multiple times, sometimes jokingly and more often wistfully, for not having a single romantic bone in any of their bodies--knows better than to say that. "No.” 

Activation rolls his eyes and settles his head in the crook of Fourteen's neck. "Liar," he says. "Convince me this isn't a bad idea."

Fourteen cards their fingers through Activation's hair. It's hard to have much of a relationship outside of the Beloved. It's harder still when they never know what they're going to forget. What might suddenly cease to matter, after they change. "No, it definitely is," Fourteen says. "Your hair smells nice."

"For a secret agent," Activation tells them, muffled into their shoulder, "you're too fucking honest. You know that?"

"I know," Fourteen says. They tip Activation's head back and kiss him again. "Maybe next time I'll be a better liar."

Activation leans over and steals Fourteen's drink. "No you won't. You'll always like mangos, and be a bad liar, and forget to call in the morning until oops, now you need something." He knocks the drink back, and wrinkles his nose. "Stop letting them make you these without the tonic. Ugh. Come on. Let's go before my better judgment makes an appearance." He curls his fingers around Fourteen's wrist and pulls. 

When Fourteen looks back, Tender is giving them a thumbs up. Their chest aches a little. Fourteen ignores it and their better judgement both.


	14. samsam, sensual murder???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was debating whether I was too embarrassed to post this but I guess we're here now?? anyway warnings for violence and gore, my time in the Hannibal fandom has finally come back to bite me

Samot is curious by nature, insatiably so, but whatever Samothes may think, he is aware of the edge that curiosity can carry. He knows better than anyone his capacity to hurt. 

He hurts Samothes, sometimes, with and without intention. He leaves bruises on his hip, claw marks along his back, bites against his collarbone that linger for days. Samot's love for Samothes is just as insatiable as his curiosity; he wants to know Samothes completely, from his blood to his breath to his bones.

Now, Samothes' thumbs are resting against Samot's hipbones, rubbing small soothing circles there as Samot stares down at him, hair falling in his face. But Samot doesn't want to be soothed; he takes Samothes' wrists and presses them back against the sheets.

Samothes isn't fragile, not the way humans are: his material form is only a fraction of what he is.

And yet in some ways he is just as fragile as any human, in the way he lies still under Samot, chin turned up, neck exposed. The part of Samot that he usually keeps buried deep, the part of him that has teeth, wants to take the offer and bite down, to tear, to feel Samothes' pulse running hot under his tongue.

But then Samothes will die, for now, and then Samot won't get to _play_.

What Samot most wants to know is Samothes' heart. There's a knife on the bedside table, but it feels more natural to use his hands and his nails. The wolf inside him knows what to do. Samothes gasps and then groans when Samot breaks the skin, digs deep beneath the muscle to peel back his ribs, but he doesn't move his hands, doesn't let his eyes stray from Samot's face.

Samot has blood under his nails and up to his wrists. Samothes' heart is beating fast. Samot's own mimics its pace. 

It trembles under Samot's hand when he touches it. Samothes opens his mouth, gasps raggedly, and Samot bends to kiss him, ferocious. He feels the way Samothes' heart skips a beat when Samot bites down on his lip, makes him bleed. 

Samot gets his other hand in Samothes' hair and tips his head back. He kisses Samothes' throat very softly. "I love you," he murmurs, and then he gives into the instinct to bite. He lets Samothes bleed out slowly, until his heart is still against Samot's hand. The warmth lingers.


	15. alyosha/arrell, drinking hot chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alyosha’s cottage, where he winters when his church has not sent him out on yet another assignment, breaks into view. Plain, its small garden bare in deference to the season, the roof recently mended, smoke billowing up from the chimney. The wind carries the hot air to brush against Arrell’s cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some alyosha/arrell fluff to mend my soul, and also as a pre-nanowrimo palette cleanser.

The first breath of winter has come to Velas, sending shivers down Arrell’s back as he makes his way to Alyosha’s small home. The clouds above him threaten snow, and Arrell, for all his long work and careful study, has not yet managed to alter the weather, even when it displeases him.

Snows will mean long weeks without the possibility of travel; long weeks with only the meager resources of Velas to aid him. There is a woman in Twinbrook he must speak to, urgently, but it is clear that it will be a long while before Arrell can make the journey. 

Alyosha’s cottage, where he winters when his church has not sent him out on yet another assignment, breaks into view. Plain, its small garden bare in deference to the season, the roof recently mended, smoke billowing up from the chimney. The wind carries the hot air to brush against Arrell’s cheeks. 

It could certainly be worse. This is a nice enough place to spend a few weeks. Arrell tells himself will return to his study with a renewed focus, when the skies clear. And if there is cold guilt, sullen in the bottom of his stomach, the warmth of Alyosha’s home when Arrell opens the door is enough to banish it. 

“Tutor!” Alyosha looks up from where he’s standing in front of the stove, stirring a pot. His hair is tied haphazardly back from his face. He smiles. “I wasn’t sure if you would make it today. I heard that it may have already begun to snow in the west.”

“Not yet,” Arrell says, beginning to pull off his heavy boots. By the time he starts on his coat with stiff fingers, Alyosha is in front of him, gently taking hold of his hands. 

“You’re freezing,” he says reproachfully. “I know you have gloves, Tutor. You ought to take better care of yourself.” He begins to unbutton Arrell’s coat.

“I was hoping that autumn would remain with us for a few more days,” he admits. “My gloves are in my pack, and it didn’t seem worth the trouble to unearth them.”

Alyosha shakes his head, still smiling. “Stubborn as always.” He hangs up Arrell’s coat, and turns to pull on the end of his scarf, tugging him in until he’s close enough to kiss. 

“Mm,” he says, pulling back. “Your lips are cold too. Come sit down, I was just finishing the hot cocoa.”

Arrell lets Alyosha lead him to the kitchen table, and finishes unwinding his scarf from around his neck. “You had a good day, I take it?”

Alyosha hums. “Well enough, I suppose. A few students are preparing to take their vows, and so I met with them to discuss it, to make sure they’ve found the right path. It’s often a difficult talk to have, but a rewarding one.” He looks back at Arrell, eyes twinkling. “And of course, I spent all day with the hope of your return keeping me company.” Alyosha turns back around to blow out the fire before he can catch the color at the tips of Arrell's ears. He’s composed himself by the time Alyosha turns back to him, two mugs in his hands. 

Alyosha hands him his drink. The chocolate is sweet when Arrell brings it to his lips. Sweeter than Alyosha likes it, Arrell knows. He quirks an eyebrow. 

"Was I not supposed to notice your penchant for sweets?" Alyosha asks innocently. “I see the way you take your coffee every morning, Tutor.”

Arrell looks down into his mug, feeling his lips pull up at the corners. Their mornings together are at this point beyond counting. He shouldn't be surprised. “You are certainly the most observant pupil I have ever had.”

Alyosha, sitting down beside Arrell with his own mug, beams. “I find,” he says, “that I am never at a loss for interesting subjects of study.” He reaches out, brushes his fingers against Arrell’s cheek. Arrell no longer feels cold at all. “Especially not when you are here.”

“You always were a careful student of flattery, as well,” Arrell says, and Alyosha laughs.

“Perhaps,” he agrees, “but I am only ever honest.” He settles his hands back around his mug, taking a drink. “You were the one who taught me that, you know. The importance of every sort of inquiry. Of careful observation of even the most mundane of things.”

“One never knows what might turn out to be important. What thread will unravel a mystery.”

Alyosha shakes his head. “I wonder, Tutor, when you will see that _everything_ around us is important. Every detail. Every parishioner that I speak with, every shopkeeper I pass, every friend that I wave to each day, they all have more stories within themselves than I could possibly hear in a lifetime. More passion and life and vigor, just waiting for someone to notice, to ask after it.” Alyosha’s eyes are bright, warming to this comfortable argument, a push and pull as familiar as that of the sea. That candle-flame of conviction shining strong within him. Arrell has never seen it flicker.

He drinks. Lets the sweetness fill his mouth while he watches Alyosha, who reminds him, always, even on bad days, that this world is worth saving.

“You see so much, in each person you meet,” Arrell says. “It is something I have found in no one else. In this, as in many things, you are quite unique, Alyosha.”

“I'll certainly take the compliment," Alyosha says. "But have you considered that perhaps, it is you who is unique in your dim view of humanity?” Alyosha asks. “I worry, sometimes, that you don’t see all the kindness that I do, in your long travels. You don’t see the ways that we help each other, here and in every town that I visit.”

“Perhaps,” Arrell allows. Alyosha brings his hand to his mouth and gasps, mock-surprised, and Arrell snorts and shakes his head. “I am not conceding the point, mind. We each bring our own perspectives to our findings. I am merely admitting that I certainly do have my own.” And surely, if someone such as Alyosha can exist, then he cannot exist in isolation. There is evil in men’s hearts. Arrell has seen it. Enough to make any collective endeavor doomed; Arrell has seen that too.

But perhaps there are more bright spots than Arrell had previously imagined. People like Alyosha, scattered across Hieron, a compassionate constellation writ large.

Or perhaps Arrell is simply disposed to see things in the best possible light, just now. Comfortable here in this small home, with Alyosha beside him and a hot drink warming his hands.

“I’ll consider this a successful evening, then,” Alyosha says, a hint of smugness in his voice. He sets down his mug, and takes Arrell’s from him as well. He curls himself into Arrell’s lap, as if he is not a head taller, much too spindly to do such a thing gracefully. Nevertheless, he does it, and Arrell allows it, curving his hands over Alyosha’s back. “You must really have missed me,” Alyosha teases, “if you’re letting me argue you to a draw.”

Arrell closes his eyes. “Perhaps,” he says again. He kisses Alyosha, and tastes the sweetness on his tongue.


	16. primary + satellite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've read about Addax Dawn, haven't you, Primary?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is from forever ago but Gotta Clean Out Those G Docs

You’ve read about Addax Dawn, haven't you, Primary? He was like you, I think. He didn't send reports, the way we do now, but he did keep a journal. Some of it even survived; the private musings of a man turned into crystalline history, to be pored over and examined long after the man himself became dust.

Addax Dawn. Demani Dusk. The Rapid Evening takes its name from an eclipse, and so many of our agents have names that reflect the movements of suns. Dawn, dusk. Twilight. It makes sense, doesn't it? Suns are what everything else pivots around. The center of each system.

But when you’re like me, Primary, the movements of suns, the arrangement of the stars, the particulars of a planet’s moons, they don’t hold the same meaning. There is no dawn or dusk for a Satellite Observer. My orbit is stable. Sometimes I see one set of stars; sometimes another. My day is not dictated by the position of the nearest sun.

Instead, it is dictated by the orderly progression of reports. That is how I count my days, my hours, my minutes. Your voice, carried to me across the stars.

So many cultures have so much to say on the subject of suns and their absences, but I wonder, Primary, how much has been written about a different sort of sun. The kind that transcends our definitions of heavenly bodies. A sun tells you when the day begins, when to wake and why: because it is bright, now. Because a sun will make things clear. A sunrise brings the possibility of joy. And when it is gone, it leaves the promise that it will be back again. 

It wouldn't be wrong to say, then, that you--

Pause. 

Demani. I don't know how to make you understand. But you’re the center of everything, you know?


	17. alyosha + ephrim when they were kids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a new face in Alyosha's camp.

There’s a new face in Alyosha’s camp. This isn’t uncommon: they pick up new people often enough as they travel their circuitous route, ever wary of the Grand Tour. But Alyosha just passed his thirteenth summer, making him one of the oldest of the children who haven’t yet chosen an apprenticeship. He feels a sense of responsibility for the others. He doesn’t want them to face the same darkness and confusion he did, when he was younger. Or at least, he would like to alleviate it as much as he can.

The prelate is busy sorting through the rations, but he still spares a moment to ruffle Alyosha’s hair when he tells him. “You’ll be a fine prelate, someday,” he says, and for the rest of the night Alyosha glows.

He’s still carrying some of that warmth with him when he finds the new child, sitting almost too close to the fire. Alyosha sits down next to him. The warmth, he must admit, is nice. 

The child looks up at him, gaze distant, and then he refocuses on the fire. 

“Hello,” Alyosha says. “I’m Alyosha.”

The child blinks at him, slowly. “Ephrim.” He turns away again.

That’s all right. Alyosha understands; he doesn’t know precisely how Ephrim came to be living with them, but it likely wasn’t pleasant. He brought a book with him, and so he begins to read, letting the light of the fire illuminate the words.

He gets through several pages before Ephrim speaks again. “What are you reading?” His voice is still subdued, but there’s a spark of interest there. Alyosha smiles.

“It’s a book of poetry, but it’s also a story,” he says. “It’s about a man who’s trying to rebuild his homeland, but he’s always moving from place to place--every time he settles, there’s another problem, and he has to leave. He has a ship.” Alyosha has always loved stories with ships, though he’s only ever been out to sea once. He got seasick.

Ephrim leans closer, peering at the pages over Alyosha’s story. “I can’t read it,” he says. He wrinkles his nose.

“It’s written in an old language, one that’s almost been lost. I’ve been working on translating it. I take lessons, with the prelate.”

“The Creed,” Ephrim says. He doesn’t sound entirely approving.

“Don’t you have the Creed of Samothes, where you come from?”

“We do,” Ephrim says. “For all the good it did us.”

Alyosha closes the book, and settles back on his hands. “The prelate told me something once. I don’t think I’ll say it as well, but--we don’t pray because we hope that Samothes will save us. We pray because we hope that we’ll have the strength to wake up the next morning, and praying helps. Whether anyone is listening or not.” It was something the prelate had said often, in so many words or in his stories, the first few months that Alyosha was with him, nearly seven years ago now, when Alyosha hardly ever stopped crying.

Ephrim doesn’t seem the type to cry. His lips are pursed, thinking. “Then why do we need Samothes at all?” he asks.

“Not everyone does,” Alyosha says. “But all the books, where they talk about his teachings--I like them. I want to learn more about them, and then talk to people about them, when I grow up.”

“Hmm.” Ephrim leans in closer, his head nearly resting on Alyosha’s shoulder. “Can I look at the book again? I haven’t--I had books, before, but I couldn’t bring them with me.”

Alyosha understands. Even amidst everything else, stories can be some of the hardest things to lose. “I’ll read it out for you,” he says. “I might get some of it wrong.”

“That’s okay,” Ephrim says. 

“Okay, this is the beginning.” He clears his throat. “I sing of weapons and a man, thrown--um, tossed about by...land and by water, by the will of Severia--”

Ephrim stays quiet for another hour, listening to Alyosha’s stumbling translation. No one but the prelate has ever listened to him like this before, and while the prelate does what he can, he never has more than a few snatched minutes to listen, to gently correct Alyosha’s word choice. But Ephrim is engrossed, totally and completely. It warms Alyosha as much as the fire does.

Every night for the next week, Alyosha reads to him. And at the end of the week, when a particularly hard gust of wind gutters the fire to nothing, Ephrim, annoyed at the interruption in their reading, simply lifts a hand and flicks his fingers. The fire bursts back into being with more ferocity than before.

Alyosha stares at him. Ephrim blinks back. “Oh,” he says. “I didn’t know I could do that.”

Leave it to you, the prelate says later, with a smile, to find the one child chosen by Samothes. But in that moment, Alyosha isn’t thinking of Samothes at all. He’s thinking of how thoughtlessly Ephrim brought about such a wonderful miracle, all so he could hear Alyosha read just one more word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is from a few months ago and WHEN will I chill with the Aeneid references


End file.
